While the shore rattled with bodies and bodies
rattled with babies, and babies rattled their rattles

while the wiles winded up, and took us out
in congregates [we, all of us] like knocked away

fixtures in circus games; while the instruments
were tuned to bawls, silly keys, minor rebellions

while I remembered where I parked my confidence
away from snakes, opinions, witches; while squeezing

out of this thing, or that hand, that gripped tight
road shoulders, silhouettes, and that shadow

standing over my bed, like dead grandfathers trying
to show their grandsons what they have hidden

behind their back; while our mothers kept checking
to see if our chests rose and fell in the night, and rose

and fell again; while our windows, our keepsakes
our darknesses moved coats in our closets, no one

was there to warn us; while our babysitters, uncles
molesters, felt on us, placing permanent felt on us

placing permanent tea on them, fixing permanent
pills in us; while we were singing, we were also shaking

and there was no disease we could avoid; while flies
in drains made homes in vents, laid eggs in hair

while we were whimpering, like my wife says I do
when sick and sleeping, because we was sick of sleeping

while we waited on our shields to regenerate; while you
gathered outside the morgues, knowing we were in there

not dead but being embalmed; we were singing the whole
time — out of key, nonetheless, but singing and letting our

runs out into the back room with the moss still on our faces
and in those times of song after touch, we built a wall to
keep the feelings out. What we thought would keep
ourselves from singing, was to cover our mouths so nothing

could enter or exit, we felt like if there was no song
and joy on our tongues, then maybe they wouldn’t want

to bless us in their way that does not match God, but matches
them wanting to be god in the privacy of their imagination.

When I told my mother about the singing, she asked
me for a song, and Lord knows I tried to tell it on the mountain

but instead, I couldn’t do anything but hum. I was 5 and there
was nothing to sing about, there was nothing to rock back

and forth about in front of the congregation because that kind
of smiling attracts flies. I know I had lights in my head, I know

they shined like there was nowhere else for them to go, and when
she placed her chest inside of my mouth, what exited was

myself, thinking there were tunes built inside of my bones.
I lift my daughter above my head and try not to place her in

the empty notes of my chest, above all the guilt and infamy
that mixes me like marbles in spray paint cans, I am sure it is working.

I can see her song arising and out of it, little bits of me I lost
working their way back into my breath. I will sing again, and the song

will be lovely, and will take orchestras and world-class musicians to
play, and will not dissipate into the wind, and will not stop me from

flying amongst the birds. I will grow wings, I think, and will not be
afraid of my own flapping. I will still be ok. I will be ok being still.

I will be still, and say ok when you ask. And I will mean it. I will
actually mean it.